


in fair verona

by cartoonmoomba



Series: I walked around the world until I found my gravestone [20]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Big Spoilers, F/M, You've been warned, ardbert stuff is coming as i am a WoD slut after all but this, hello i finished shadowbringers and am now ascian trash, i finally found a villain i didn't want to kill RIP, this i did not expect, this will be a series so please suffer with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 05:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19660783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartoonmoomba/pseuds/cartoonmoomba
Summary: “Paint a picture for me, please.” Between arriving at Top Rung and heading to Mt. Gulg, The Warrior of Light and Emet-Selch have a chat about Amaurot. [big Shadowbringers spoilers, theory-crafting, and WoL/Emet-Selch if you squint real hard don’t worry next one you won’t need to squint haaaah]





	in fair verona

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Final Fantasy XIV does not belong to me.
> 
> let's be real my notes is in the tags aHhhHHH BIG SPOILERS
> 
> please talk to me about this man and his whole "not like you'd remember" line :sweats:
> 
> also find me on tumblr at fheythfully.tumblr.com

She finds him skulking around the gates of the Tower, shoulders hunched low as is his wont and eyes squinting even in the restored sunlight. Hesitation holds her steps, though she knows there is no possibility of him not having noticed her approach. She feels his eyes on her at all times, lately, ever since he deigned to join them for the foray into the Greatwood. Even when he is absent she feels the weight of his gaze on her back: pressing and expectant.

Her stomach turns. She does not want the _expectation_ of one such as him. An Ascian, of all people, with his back turned so casually towards her—not in trust but in dismissal, in the assurance that she will do nothing to him that he cannot do to her tenfold in return. A hundredfold, _a thousandfold_ , if he is to be believed. She will shoulder the burden of expectation from the Scions, and now from all of the First, but from him?

Never. Not after all that he and his kind have done.

Emet-Selch appears to be picking at the crystalline walls with a finger. The light hits his hair and the pauldrons of the immense, heavy Garlean coat he insists on wearing; in the sunlight, large figure hunched over, he looks as much of a suspicious figure as he truly is. The Exarch’s guard is giving him the side-eye from near the doors, one hand inching towards his sword and Lia does not blame him. She wishes to do the same, though perhaps not as often as before—not after his suspiciously kind retrieval of Shtola from the Lifestream.

She knows why she has sought him out, for once, and not the other way around. Sure, there had been her burning questions and his willingness to answer, but never had it been just the two of them alone and not sequestered with the other Scions and the Exarch in a convenient time and place for questioning. The words they’d shared in Kholusia while waiting for the Ladder burn at her, tumble through her head to the point of giving nightmares. She has woken up more than once throughout the night to find Ardbert’s ghostly form within reach, one hand on her forehead as he told her, quietly, that she had been crying.

She does not remember why she cries at night, or the depths of her dreams. Only the voice of the godsdamn Ascian.

_“…and then there was Amaurot…”_

He had looked so wistful then, gazing up at the sky. So appropriately ancient and burdened, even more so than she.

_“Never was a city more magnificent. From the humblest streets to the highest spires, she fairly gleamed…”_

Despite herself, she had tried to imagine it: towers stretching to the sky, shades of white and grey; wide streets made for an eternal population and perhaps greenery, carefully placed by its citizens.

Amaurot.

 _Amaurot_.

She wants, despite herself, to know more.

“Well,” Emet-Selch snaps before her, all annoyance. “Will you keep staring at my back for precious eons, or ask whatever it is you came here for?”

It is a fight to keep the scowl from her lips as he turns towards her, his own mouth down-turned as he takes her in. It is hard to reconcile him with the man at the Bottom Rung, who had appeared almost soft when caught in his memory of a better world. _It is unfair,_ she thinks suddenly and passionately, _to see a villain made so human_.

“Would you walk with me?” She asks instead of giving voice to her thoughts. Her palms feel clammy, although she does not know why, and so she presses them together behind her back. The straight line of her spine gives her strength to look at him without fear, without worry; she does not fear him, or worry for her life when with him. He has had many chances to kill her or to kill them all, and she does not doubt that a great and terrible power lies within the body he has manifested for himself. Yet still her fingers tremble, her heartbeat erratic to her own ears.

Something within her fears something within him, and she does not know why nor what. She only knows the tremors in her heart giving rise to nightmares and tears she does not understand.

Emet-Selch squints at her now, one finger to his chin. “Alone with you, Warrior? Have you decided to pull more of your heroic duties and attempt to dispose of me? I assure you, there is no perch high enough to throw my body off of here. You would be dead before you thought to try.” The frown on his face turns into a familiar smile, making a mockery of her in time with his words. “And there would be so many witnesses. We would need a truly desolate place for you to attempt your murder.” 

She loses the fight against scowling. The guard eavesdropping on their conversation (not his fault, of course, they are _right there_ ) sends her a concerned look, not doubting her but rather the man in front of her—she dismisses him with a hand, all her attention focused on Emet-Selch. He is like a godsdamned magnet to it; she cannot, for the life of her, relax when he is present. And he has promised to be watching _always_ , and unlike Ardbert’s now familiar and comforting promise to remain with her, the idea of Emet-Selch judging her every move makes her skin itch. She cannot focus on anything but the Ascian when he deigns to manifest himself, eyes constantly drawn to his face and the motions of his hands, waiting for the hint of a coming attack.

“Oh,” his voice comes again, lines forming in the corners of his eyes as his smile widens. “I do believe I’ve made you angry.”

Lia pulls back her lips in her own mockery of a smile. “Nothing of the sort, I assure you. I will be flinging no bodies over walkways today, so if it pleases you: a walk?”

Emet-Selch is silent. There is bird-song in the air, curious wildlife coming out to inspect the light of the sun. At last he drops his finger from his chin and gazes levelly at her. The mockery of his smile softens to curiosity in the corners, just a touch but enough for her to notice—familiar enough for her to pick up on.

She hates that she does, has known him now long enough to see the tells he allows her to see.

“You must truly want to know of something, then.” He shrugs a grandiose motion, the same as everything about him: the clothes, the speech, the near-rapport she has developed with him. “Let us away then, Warrior, and you may have _all_ of my attention.”

She makes a derisive noise. “Better me than the Exarch, Ascian. Leave the busy man alone, would you?” She does not look back to see if he follows her, so assured that he will: she has piqued his curiosity now, for once seeking him out instead of the other way around. For once, she wants something only he can give; it is him that she comes to, not Urianger or Y’Shtola or the Exarch.

Many people want many things of her. It is atypical for her to want something of _them_. She wonders if he knows this; wonders how closely he has followed her journey from adventurer to vaunted Warrior.

And indeed his footsteps fall heavy beside her. “ _Ascian_?” He scoffs, a pout she glimpses from the corners of her eyes. “Are we still not on first-name basis? Not that you deserve such an honour, as lowly as your kind are. But _me_? I think I deserve more than _Ascian_ at this point.”

She sets to lead him up to the Rotunda overlooking the markets, purely because he made the remark about high places. She knows he recognizes the pettiness of her move by the way his shoulders straighten for the briefest of moments, repressed laughter shaking them into motion. Truly, she would believe his claims to being ancient by his posture alone. How did the Garleans ever decide make Emperor of a man with such bad manners?

Few people mill about this high up. It affords them the privacy she had sought, out of respect for the hint of genuine pain she believes to have glimpsed from him that day at Bottom Rung.

“Very well, _Emet-Selch_ , which, by the by, is not even your name.” He sends her an un-amused look as she stops short, turning to properly look at him. Even hunched as he is, she still has to peer up, up—nearly as bad as an Elezen or a Viera, the Garleans. She wonders what his race had looked like when they had been alive. What traits do they share now, with the races which had evolved and flourished in the wake of their demise?

“The tales of your diplomacy fall short of the reality,” the man drawls. “But ask away anyway, Warrior, and perhaps I will even give you an answer.”

One of her eyebrows raises, incredulous. “After following me all the way here, you still think I do not believe you interested in chatting? Do not take me for such a fool, please.” She continues on before he can open his mouth in reply. “Yes, yes, we are all fools and beneath you, I have heard it all before. But, regardless—“ and here she catches her breath, the hesitation creeping back in, the tremor in her hands suddenly felt again.

She pushes on, puts on the Warrior persona, the expectations of all those around her making her brave, making her _false_. “You spoke of your ancient city some days ago at Bottom Rung. Of Amaurot. I would like to know more of it, if you would speak.”

 _Amaurot._ Staring at him as she is now, the name tastes strangely of ash and her own shed tears. She nearly misses the flinch of his body at her request, the minute widening of his eyes. But he recovers quickly, and he recovers well—and for one as ancient as he, she knows, control must be as easy as breathing.

The constant smile on his face is back once more, almost too many teeth as he laughs quietly. “You ask to hear of what I’ve lost? Truly, Warrior? Have you no shame?”

“Not when it comes to you,” her response comes rapid-fire fast, chin raised in stubbornness. “If you did not wish for me to question you, then you would not have spoken so freely to me that day. And did you not promise me a talk, on a more pleasurable occasion?” She spreads her arms around her, indicating the scene: the Crystarium at peace, the crystalline ceiling above them bright and blue from the midday sun. “And we are unlikely to get a time more pleasurable than this, Emet-Selch.”

His golden eyes narrow at her words, assessing as always. A moment of silence passes, filled only with the chatter of the markets below. “Very well,” he says at last. “What would you have me tell you?”

Well—she hadn’t truly expected to get this far. He had been forthcoming with his answers on matters whenever she asked in the past, but there had always been a thread of secrecy left, a patronizing gleam in his eyes as he talked as if to a child—nay, one he did not even consider _alive_. She had expected more resistance, at least, before being offered even a glimpse of his past.

She wets her suddenly dry lips. “Everything. Paint a picture for me, please.”

His gaze is piercing, weighing; will he find her wanting? Or will he find enough—enough to give him a captive audience as he shares a world once whole and brilliant, and forever perfect in his memories?

Her heart beats out a nervous drum within her breast. The thought of unexplored lands, of ancient cities buried to time—those have always given her the adrenaline rush she seeks, but this feels—heavier. This is a time before time itself; before Hydaelyn and Zodiark. Before death. Before the first true Calamity.

Emet-Selch opens his mouth and speaks. His past tone of whining and complaining, of snobbery, falls away and she glimpses the Emperor of Garlemald he had once been—or perhaps even long before that, in that time before time itself. He orates himself eloquently and assuredly, the rise and fall of his voice painting the picture she had so desired in her mind. At some point she closes her eyes, lulled into the fantasy he weaves for her: a city of alien structures stretching high towards a brilliant sky, shining white and unblemished in the light of a different sun. Wide city streets of similar stone are busied by robed figures, laughing and speaking and debating and basking in the feeling of their perfect society. They have not known war, or conflict; there is only contentment in the air. Children play and run from their parents and make flowers burst out of thin air; a figure watches them go, and suddenly the material she had been working on between her hands falters and changes, much to her amusement and annoyance. She gathers it into her arms and begins anew, magic shimmering and weaving around her as natural as breathing.

Birds alight on blooming trees, the likes of which she had never seen before—both bird _and_ tree. Yet still she sees them clearly in her mind for the briefest of moments; vibrant violet blooms and eagles with too long wings and beaks, sparrows with strange colour patterns and a trill so beautiful it aches the heart. Emet-Selch speaks and she sees intricately crafted arches and entire city districts, buildings where citizens gather purely to debate or discuss creation. She does not think she fully understands what he means when he speaks of this strange magic, of breathing existence into a thought as easily as one exhales, but she can _see_ it. Can see the magic in the air, the flow of aether as it winds throughout the city and touches upon everything within: the Ancients are made of aether themselves and everything they make is imbued with it, _shines_ with it.

Her body shakes with the idea of it, of being so in tune with the aether of the world. For the briefest of moments she imagines that she can do it, too—that she can will entire ideas into existence, one careful thought at a time. What wonders would she make, with a power like that?

And at the center of it all, she sees it: The Capitol, grandiose yet modest. Inside sits the Convocation of Fourteen in their dark robes, a sturdy bench warm under her weight and voices familiar as they rise and fall around the topics of the day. Emet-Selch stifles a sigh beside her, the shifting of his crossed arms sending an elbow into her side and she hopes he can feel her amused sympathy. Lahabrea is the Speaker for a reason, but even for her there are some days where she wishes the meetings did not stretch on for as long as they did. She reaches up to adjust the mask on her face, its material as comfortable as second skin, and casts her eyes about the room. Every one of them is near and dear to her, even if they do not always agree on all topics. But that is the perfection of their society; they have an eternity to discuss, to learn, to grow.

Her attention falls back to Lahabrea, who is gesturing with his arms in a familiar performance. The light in the room shifts with the passing of the sun outside and the shadows under his hood change, and—

—and Thancred’s face is staring out at her, twisted with fury and agony, a voice not his _screaming at her_ —

She snaps open her eyes and chokes on air, big gasping breaths as if she had not been breathing this entire time. Wildly she reaches for her throat as if the familiar weight of her fingers will help the airflow, and for a second _she’s too big for her body—_

A hand reaches out and touches her cheek, sweeping under her eye and the tears she had not realized that had gathered there. The Crystarium blooms into existence back around her: the trees bright and otherworldly pink, its citizens below her loud and at once familiar and so very not. _This isn’t right_ , she thinks for half a second, still trapped in the spell of Emet-Selch’s dream. _They’re not right. They’re not—they’re not—_

She looks up towards the figure before her. She had not realized Emet-Selch had stopped speaking, or had stepped close to her at some point during it all. For once he stands at full height and still she has the crazy thought that it was _wrong_ , that everything around them was empty and bereft of—

Of—

She opens her mouth to speak but it all escapes her. The emptiness within her has vanished, leaving only an echo of the wrongness and a heart threatening to burst from her chest. Blinking, she stares up at Emet-Selch, still gathering her wits about her.

He makes a _tsk_ ing sound with his tongue. “Come now, none of that.” Quickly, before she can move away, he reaches out once more and brushes aside the tears falling over her cheeks. “This was not a tale meant to make _you_ weep. Here I am, abiding by your most ardent request, and all you do is cry in response? I don’t know why I bother.”

He steps away from her then and she watches him go, still caught in a stupor. “Forgive me,” she says automatically, voice catching in her throat. The echo of wrongness remains, demanding—something. Reaching up she presses her knuckles into her eyes, and—and she thinks, of all things, of Ascians _masks_ , of what one would feel like her against her face.

 _How long did you live for?_ She thinks, staring at Emet-Selch now looking at the markets below. _How long did you live for before your Calamity?_

“Thank you for your time,” she says at last, once she has composed herself enough. Her hands have not stopped shaking and now also burn with a desire to move and shape things with magic she does not have. It makes her sick to her stomach to think of how deeply she had fallen under his spell. Was that, too, a power of the Ascians? Did he use his magic on _her_?

She’s floating off again, caught in a thought she does not feel herself enough to follow. She feels too full and too empty all at once, sick and bursting without knowing what she wants. It is a feeling almost like the one she awakens with after Hydaelyn calls her, but something about this makes her yearn in a way she never has before; an ache she does not have a name for, a cause for.

 _I didn’t want this_ , she thinks. _I didn’t, I swear._

She lies. Lies, lies, _lies_ , because within that dream she was herself enough to recognize the truth: her world was ugly, incomplete, when compared to the past Emet-Selch had so wonderfully described.

And it matters little now, of course; his world is long dead and buried and she is the here and now, the one to stop his Rejoining. She will not rebuild a past on corpses and bones.

“If I knew my words alone would affect you so,” Emet-Selch is speaking again, his stare all too amused and focused for her liking. She feels like burning under his gaze, feels the imprint of his skin at her side for that one brief moment in the strange dream. “Perhaps I should have merely created the city for you, and let you wander at your own leisure. I’m sure there would be no tears were I not to be present.”

She bursts into laughter against her will. It catches him as off guard as it does her; she has not laughed around him before, if ever on the First thus far. She does not remember the last time she laughed this freely. When did she start finding his off-colour comments so amusing and not so irritating?

She laughs to hide the remnants of her tears, of how her face still sparks from his touch, of the things she saw within her dream. She laughs in the hope that now she will not awaken to Ardbert’s concerned and all too understanding face as he brings her back from the grasp of nightmares. Now that she has seen this city as best she can for herself, now—

Now, perhaps, she will stop dreaming of it and forgetting the details come waking. She will make do with this painted image of a civilization long gone and forgotten, known only now to her alone. Perhaps she’ll think of it at times and mourn the ones who came before, who did everything they could for the ones who came after; and not for the Ascians, who work so hard to undo all that time and history have wrought.

When she finally stops laughing, Emet-Selch is still gazing at her. There is an unreadable look on his face, and she does not dare contemplate it further. There is the first sense of—not quite peace, but of armistice between them. She finds she does not want to break it, and asking further questions, seeking out his company even further—

It is not a path she wishes to take. After everything his kind have done to her and hers, she will not follow him further down into his hole of despair and desire. The Warrior of Light, joining hands with the Ascians to reclaim and rebuild their perfect, everlasting world?

The smile still lingering on her face trembles.

 _No,_ she thinks. _That is not a story written of heroes._

And she is, always, for others—

A hero.


End file.
